Unmasked Loathing
by tee.tee.why.el
Summary: Regulus finally takes action against his perfect older brother.


Title:

**Unmasked Loathing**

I watch with disgust as you stuff your face with what is supposed to be breakfast. But it can't be breakfast; breakfast is supposed to be a civilized affair, involving tools called_ spoons_ and _forks_. I know those are big words for you, dear brother, but could you at least _pretend_ that you knew how to use them? You are a disgrace to the family name. And I hate you for it.

Suddenly, I realize that I am glaring at the back of your head in a rather obvious manner, so I quickly turn to face my golden plate again. As I bite into my biscuit, my thoughts continue to wander.

You possessed everything, and you threw it away. You childishly and immaturely threw it away when you ran off to join the circus. Oh, wait – you fled to Potter's house, didn't you? Huh.

Like I said, you joined the circus.

Mum and Dad worked hard to make you presentable for society, but you felt the need to mess everything up. And do you know what happened after that?

They turned to me – me, Regulus Arcturus Black. Now I carry the hopes and expectations that Mum and Dad had placed on you as well as the ones that they'd placed on me.

_It's all your fault,_ I think to myself as I stab at my eggs angrily.

"Black, have those eggs offended you in any way?" a greasy-haired seventh year asks me lazily. "Because you're splattering them everywhere. And it is getting annoying."

My nostrils flare angrily, and I violently turn my head away from Severus Snape. But I do not respond. The mudblood-lover does not deserve a response. He is unworthy.

Still facing away from the greasy git, my mind continues to race.

It's your fault that I will never be able to live up to Mum and Dad's expectations of me.

It's your fault that I live in your enormous shadow here in school. 'Oh, Regulus Black! He's Sirius's brother, right?' I snort into my sausage; because of you, I have yet to gain my own identity.

It's your fault that the Slytherin Quidditch team hasn't won a match in seven years – you, with your fantastic Keeping abilities. It really shows that the world's gone to pot when a team's hopes and dreams rely on one person's knack for swatting at balls.

It's your fault that I'm so bitter.

Why do you have to be so perfect? You're not even _spiteful _towards me; if you were, maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty for despising you so. Yes, I always go along with your show of 'brotherly love and affection,' but do you know what I do when your back is turned? I quirk my eyebrow at my friends, and we laugh at you. We laugh at you for being forgiving. We laugh because you can't hate me – the person who is rightfully supposed to be your rival, the person who would jump at the chance to humiliate you.

A dreadful noise like an oncoming train rouses me from the quagmire that is my thoughts. My head snaps up, my expression wary. I sneer at my idiocy – the noise was only that of students scraping their benches backwards in order to begin the trek towards their first class.

"Oi, Black," Crouch nudges me, and points his chin towards you. You are chortling at some joke that Potter has just made; your bark-like laugh echoes above the din of student chatter, and I cringe inwardly. "I think it's time that your brother was taught a lesson, my friend."

I nod once. It is time.

Under the cover of the après-breakfast rush, Bartemius Crouch and I begin towards the Great Oak Doors. As we near you, time slows. Your perfect teeth glint in the candlelight as you laugh raucously. Your friends share in your amusement; all of your voices combine to form a magnificently boisterous orchestration of joy. And, for a moment, my heart yearns to join you. My soul cries out, wanting to laugh along at the idiotic comment that Pettigrew has just made. The very fibers of my being _twang_ with the desire to belong to your crowd – your story – your life.

_Thump._

A balled up scrap of paper thwacks against my skull, and lands on the floor. My expression blank, I lean down, and pick it up.

_Dearest Reggie-Weggie,_

I just wanted to inform you that the rag-tag lot of Neanderthals that you've brought together and called the Slytherin Quidditch team are going down so hard in today's match that you'll all be afraid of flying for months.

Cordially,

James Potter

P.S. I've included a sketch of the Quidditch Cup. Merlin knows this is the closest you'll ever get to actually holding it in your hands.

I snarl angrily, grab my wand, and mutter, "_Incendio_." With sadistic glee I watch as the offending letter is destroyed at my hand. Having finished that task, my head snaps up, and I lock eyes with Potter. My facial expression betrays nothing but cold, raw, abhorrence. Our staring contest continues until he is forced to blink. I sneer at your group in dismissal, turn on my heel, and continue towards the doors, where Crouch is waiting for me.

"What was that about?"

"It was a weak attempt at intimidation," I reply tartly. I do not stop my walk, and neither does he. "Luckily for them, they are sht at that particular art."

"They are sht at everything they try," Crouch scoffs. I chuckle in agreement just as we reach our destination: the Gryffindor Quidditch team's changing room.

The golden rays of morning peek through the Forbidden Forest's trees' branches, illuminating the door before me. The ancient wood seems even older in the sunlight, and my hand reaches out tentatively to caress the gateway between right and wrong. Once I open that door, I will have made my decision to travel the beaten trail of darkness, rather than that of light.

"What are you doing?" Bartemius's voice is harsh with confusion, and my arm quickly drops in resolution.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm opening the door, simpleton!" Lies. It's all lies. I suppose I've made my decision, and I might as well follow through. I can't go back now. In one fluid motion, I grab the handle, and push down. I freeze, and order Crouch in a low, gruff, commanding voice that even I can't recognize as my own, "Allow no one through." He nods solemnly, and turns away from me, already beginning the task of guarding the door.

I don't stop to admire the wooden door again. Instead, I swiftly push past it, leaving the sunlit grounds behind me for a dim, empty enclosure: my opponents' changing room – the place where they bare all before every practice, every match. It's dark, but I can still discern the red and gold cubby marked with the doomed name: Sirius Orion Black. I note with a boiling anger that you've tried to scratch out your middle name – the name of our father. Ashamed of your family, are you, brother? You know nothing of shame.

I try the door to your cabinet. It's locked, but that is nothing to worry about. Shaking my head at your trusting nature, I mutter, "_Alohamora_." With a deafening _click_, I have gained access to your prized possession.

Your Silver Arrow leans casually in its designated corner, giving off the deceiving idea that its owner could care less about it. Only I know how precious your broom is to you, brother. Your Silver Arrow, you had told me that Christmas, seems to be your only gift that Mum and Dad have put any thought into. Even to this day, you treasure its very existence. The fact that it's still the best broomstick available helps you in this area, I'm sure.

But all that is about to change.

As I slowly reach into your cupboard, one of the few places that you believe is safe from the outside world, I can't keep the victorious smirk off of my face. I shall be sure to always savor this moment.

My hand curls around the broomstick's barrel, and I pull it out in ecstasy. It is done. I have the broom in my possession! Crouch and I plan to bury it deep within the Forbidden Forest, where you will never be able to find it –

_"Crouch? What are you doing here?"_ your voice questions my ally on the other side. I freeze in surprise and shock. I can distinguish your tone through the door: you haven't accused him of doing anything suspicious – that is not in your nature – but you seem wary of the various atrocities he could commit just by standing in front of your changing room.

_"I'm... enjoying the sunlight,"_ Barty responds. If I were not paralyzed with fear, I would snort in disbelief. Crouch never has been a decent liar. Evidently, brother, you share the same opinion.

_"Well, would you mind stepping aside? I need to get my broom for a short before-match warm-up."_ I can hear the ill-concealed amusement in your voice. You may think that you're doing a brilliant imitation of one who hides his emotions, but you're just a horrid actor as Barty.

_"Well… uh… no… you see…"_

Sht. Crouch isn't going to be able to hold you off. My head whips about, searching for another exit. There is none. I hear you chuckle, and the handle on the door jiggles. I freeze again, not knowing what else to do.

The door opens and you enter, a teasing smile still etched on your face. I watch as your contentedness fades to surprise. That surprise all too quickly changes to confusion, and a hint of anger is visible.

"Regulus, what are you doing?" Your tone is guarded, as if you don't want to blame anything on me until you have all the facts. Oh, how innocent you are. Your precious broom is clutched in my right hand, I am frozen on the spot, and you ask me what I'm doing? I chuckle and shake my head in disbelief before calmly stating:

"I am destroying you, brother."

Comprehension eventually sheds its rays of light onto the horizon of your face. You finally realize what my feelings towards you have always been. You finally know that I've been lying to your face since the day you were sorted into Gryffindor. You have finally seen that my term for you, 'brother,' is not a mere title – it is a curse: one of acidic proportions.

Filled with a manic anger, you roar incoherent curses at me and lunge towards your broom – one of the few things you have found that you can rely on in this twisted world of ours.

But you are too late.

I pull the broom out of your reach, and, with all of my might, I bellow, "_INCENDIO_!"

Instantly, your Silver Arrow explodes in an inferno of flames, spite, and revenge.

A sense of accomplishment overtakes my senses – destroying you feels good, brother.

You fall to the ground, shock etched into the worn lines in your face. Tears stream down in rivers, pooling together into oceans at your knees. Your eyes squeeze shut, as if to block out this reality that you wish was only a nightmare.

Clutching your stomach in agony, you begin howling. Howling as to why I hurt you; why I felt the need to destroy everything that you held dear.

I do not respond. Instead, I swiftly turn to the door, the gateway between what is right and what is wrong, and I open it.

The brilliant, illuminating sunlight has been covered by a cloud as dark and stormy as the conflict that I should be feeling. Wind whips through the surrounding trees, stirring up fallen leaves, instantly and dramatically chilling the temperature.

I welcome the frigid atmosphere with open arms - I suppose I never have been fond of the sun.


End file.
